I'm Just Kitten Around
by Finnicks
Summary: Sherlock gets smitten with a kitten and John tries to sort out his feelings. Post Reichenbach. Sherlock/John. Johnlock.


I'd never thought that I'd end up living in a flat with a sociopath. And I never thought that I'd end up enjoying it this much. He's right mental, but he's also the most vulnerable man alive. I know that he really does care, deep down in his analytical heart he cares. Someday I'll prove it; that I know the real Sherlock Holmes, the man who's as human as can be.

He's playing his violin today. I know that means he's thinking and probably doesn't want to be disturbed. Well, tough luck, Sherlock. I brought home a surprise with the milk today, and your thinking can wait.

I got the idea a few weeks ago when we went out for brunch; coffee for me, tea for Sherlock. As always. We were walking past a shop with a glass window display, and in the display were some little furry creatures tumbling around. Most of them were an orange-y colour, while a few were darker grey.

Sherlock stopped and peered in at the little animals, the look on his face was priceless. A mixture of fascination, curiosity, and something like adoration.

"They're kittens, Sherlock." I said, amused at his obvious infatuation in the small felines. "Cute, aren't they?"

"I know what they are, John." He says in that cool, smooth voice of his. "I'm simply observing this dismal environment in which they are living. Poor things."

"Sherlock Holmes empathizing with another living thing;" I exclaimed, faking incredulity. "What is the world coming to?"

He gave me one of his Sherlock glares, though, it wasn't as potent as usual. "But they're not hopeless humans wandering around looking for money or killing each other. They're helpless animals locked away behind glass, kept away from the sunlight and fresh air. Even you, John, should feel sorry for them."

"I do, but there's nothing anyone can do, they wouldn't survive out on their own. And no one wants to adopt blind kittens. Look." I said, indicating the sign perched on the window front. In black marker it clumsily read: BLIND KITTENS 50% OFF

Sherlock remained quiet, I could tell he was drifting off into thought. He did that a lot, get lost in his mind, he'd trail off in the middle of a conversation, get spacey while reading, anything, really.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go." I said, laying a tentative hand on his arm. I guided him, still in deep thought, away from the window.

The violin stops as I step on the creaky step at home. "It's just me, Sherlock." I call. He's been a bit jumpy since the Moriarty incident. After Sherlock came back, he was a right state. Crazy, almost. Crazier than usual. But that was six months ago, we're almost back to normal.

Whatever "normal" is for us. What would be normal for a man who solves crimes and his flatmate who blogs about it? I have no idea; so I try to just live and let live, enjoy Sherlock's company, and the adventure he brings as much as I can, while I can.

I push open the door with my foot, since I'm carrying a few bags. I see Sherlock perched in the edge of the couch, violin in hand. He's stopped playing though, and is watching me curiously. I swear, nothing gets past that man.

"Oh, hi." I say as I set down one of the bags on the kitchen table. There was a strange mark there that I was pretty sure wasn't when I left, but I knew better than to ask.

"John," Sherlock eyes me cautiously. "What have you got in the other bag?" I'm not sure whether I was imagining the tiniest bit of excitement in his voice or not.

"A surprise." I say going over to him. I carefully sit on the couch and place the bag gently between us. "I know you haven't really liked being alone lately, Sherlock. And since I got the new job and everything, I thought you might like some company." I open the bag and reach inside, gently lifting out the newest member of the family.

Sherlock looks a little dazed, but takes the kitten when I offer it to him. "John, he's purring." He sounds taken aback, but holds the tiny feline as delicately as ever.

"He's happy. I think he fancies you more than me, he was practically biting me." I say watching Sherlock hold the mass of grey fur with a smirk. The kitten was curled against his chest, and I could hear the bloody thing purring from here.

"I don't know how to take care of a cat." Sherlock says, looking a little worried. "I can deduce a person's life from their appearance, and have never lost a single game of chess. But I can't take care of things like you can, John. I can't let people know how I feel until it's too late." He looks dejected, poor thing.

I scoot close to him so I can pat his back. It ends up being a but awkward, but I still feel him relax a little. "I always knew you cared, Sherlock." I say looking at my feet. I don't know exactly what to say, I always thought of him, Sherlock Holmes, as my best friend. Even though he could be annoying as hell, arrogant, vague, and a harsh critic, he was still my Sherlock. And I guess I loved that sorry piece of work.

"Thank you, John." He smirks a little, the old cocky Sherlock showing again.

"Not everyone needs to love public, er, displays of affection." I add, looking over at him. Now he's looking at his feet. "I mean, I know you care. And I'm sure Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade know too. Hell, if they didn't they wouldn't keep you around as much as they do. And as for kittens, you can learn anything about them. The important thing is that they like you and this one has taken quite a liking to you." I gesture towards the kitten who has promptly fallen asleep on his lap.

Sherlock quietly strokes the animal's head. "What's its name?" He asks after a moment.

"I dunno yet, he didn't come with a name and I've always been bad at these things."

"I don't think you're bad at anything, you're best at some things but not bad..." He trails off.

"Eh, alright then. Thanks. Do you have any idea for a name?" I say, a bit confused. The famous consulting detective complimenting a "stupid person" as he would say. Shocking.

"He reminds me of you, John, all cuddly and sleepy. Like you in the morning. We could name him after you."

I can feel the tips of my ears getting warm, I hadn't thought that Sherlock would remember that morning, but then again, nothing gets by him.

It was a bit after he returned, I was still angry at him. Angry, confused, hurting. I was at the pub late that night and when I got back it was three in the morning. I wasn't sloppy drunk, but not quite sober enough to use the normal amount of sense I have.

He was up waiting, he was always up waiting. He wanted to make sure I got home alright, I guess. He was holding his violin, but not playing it, no one knew he was back yet. Except me, because I had to live with the bloody sod. He looked a little relieved when I barged in the door.

I blinked furiously, the light next to him blinding me a little. "I'm still not used to seeing you." I'd said, once I got used to the light. It'd been a whole year, and when he returned he looked exactly the same. He wouldn't tell me much, just that it was one more trick and I shouldn't think about it too much.

He stood and walked over to me, taking a firm, but gentle hold on my arm. Guiding me to the stairs leading to my room. "You're in a right state, John, come on now. Bed."

I can't remember much after that, just falling into bed and Sherlock putting a blanket over me. Then me and my big mouth. "Don't leave, Sherlock, don't leave me again. I was so lonely, and so lost. Please stay with me..."

I can't see his face but I know he's probably hurt, anything that suggests him leaving hurts him all over again. But I want to hurt him, he hurt me and it's not fair that he always holds all the cards.

The bed moves as he sits on the edge of it, he tentatively reaches out to rub my back. To console me, to comfort me.

And all of a sudden I realize I don't want to hurt him, I just want him here. With me. My Sherlock. I take his hand in mine, he moves closer. He lays next to me on the bed, still holding my hand.

"I won't leave, John. I promise." He whispers. He has that slight craze to his voice though, Nicotine patches. At least four. We're both not entirely ourselves, but to hell with it. I try to forget that we're both under some influence and just breathe, breathe and concentrate on him beside me.

I drift off to sleep still holding his hand. I'm not sure if he even slept there, because in the morning he was gone. And I wasn't entirely sure weather I'd just made up the whole thing.

"I don't really want a cat named after me, Sherlock." I say, snapping my attention back to him in the present.

"So you remember too..." Sherlock says, watching me intently. "I know you do because I saw that your eyes were unfocused for about 5.9 seconds and that means an intense memory or dream was being recalled. It wasn't a dream, John."

"I-" I'm at a loss for words, what do I say? I missed you. I didn't know what to do when you were gone. I feel all these things for you but I can't figure them out. "I was still dealing with you coming back, I guess."

"Where does that leave us?" He has a strange look on his face, but I can't read it. I can never read him.

"We're flatmates. And you're my best friend. I-" I falter again, are we more than just flatmates or partners solving crimes together? Could there be more? I don't know.

"You're my only friend, John. I hope you know that."

"I do."

"Fine, then."

"It's all fine." I have to look away, his gaze is intense. My eyes are drawn to the kitten, who has now stumbled into the kitchen, and found the milk left in a cereal bowl from this morning. He's lapping it up happily. "Maybe we should call him Mustache. Look at that milk mustache he has."

"And you say you aren't good at these sort of things." Sherlock says, nodding. "I never would have guessed that I'd end up with a cat and flatmate, almost like a real person." He adds, smirking.

"Normal, right." I say grinning a little. The weird moment has passed, but I know the subject will crop up again. Hopefully, by then, I'll have sorted out these funny little things called feelings and will actually be able to give Sherlock a straight answer. And maybe even give the next addition a proper name.


End file.
